Recent items of note:
Hacker tips on how to travel the world for free. [via Vice]
Dear Men: please feel free to order a Cosmo. I won’t judge. I mean I’ll try. [via MSN]
Smoking your cocktail in a bong is a real thing. [via LA Mag]
A brief history of the restaurant matchbook. [via Eater]

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**Disclaimer: I’m about to liberally exercise the f-word and talk about sex, which is somewhat out of character for me on here. If that’s not your thing, I would encourage you to skip to my next post. No hard feelings.**

Dear Hip-Hop,

What’s good? I admit it’s been a bit since we’ve spent quality time together, and I’m sorry about that. There’s just so much music out there and TBH, I’ve been feeling like maybe we’ve drifted apart recently. And that maybe (PROBABLY) this time its for good.

How did we get to this point? This new song by Drake, honestly. You know, “Hotline Bling?”

Yeah, I’m not sure why his phone blings instead of rings either, but that’s not my main concern here. Neither are the old man dance moves. First, I want to ask for a bit of clarification as to what Drake is actually upset about in the song.

You used to call me on my cell phoneLate night when you need my loveCall me on my cell phoneLate night when you need my loveAnd I know when that hotline blingThat can only mean one thingI know when that hotline blingThat can only mean one thing

Ever since I left the city,You got a reputation for yourself nowEverybody knows and I feel left outGirl you got me down, you got me stressed out‘Cause ever since I left the city,you started wearing less and goin’ out moreGlasses of champagne out on the dance floorHangin’ with some girls I’ve never seen before

Ok, there’s a lot here I want to unpack, but first, is Drake essentially upset because a girl he used to only talk to in the middle of the night — only talk to in order to coordinate sex, mind you, (only mean “one thing”) — is now out on the prowl herself? Okay. Okay, great. So, it’s totally okay for him to only talk to her for sex (in a purely transactional matter), but it’s not okay for her to go out and get in the mix on her own. And its especially not okay for her to hang out with girls he’s unfamiliar with. Have I got that straight?

These days, all I do isWonder if you bendin’ over backwards for someone elseWonder if you’re rollin’ up a backwoods for someone elseDoing things I taught you, gettin’ nasty for someone elseYou don’t need no one elseYou don’t need nobody else, noWhy you never aloneWhy you always touching roadUsed to always stay at home, be a good girlYou was in a zone, yeahYou should just be yourselfRight now, you’re someone else

And this person she’s “become” – it’s not really herself, because if she was being herself, she would sit at home and wait for Drake to return to town and then be available only to him, right? Wait, sorry — only available to him in the middle of the night. Because that’s what good girls do?

Ok, glad that’s clear. My next question is, where does a barney like Drake, who looks like the guy who would offer to do your Algebra 2 homework JUST to get your phone number, exactly get off? I’m supposed to believe he has so much swag he’s owed this girl’s sexual freedom? Or even receive a vote on how she should live her life? GTFOH. For real.

Hip-hop, this is why we are breaking up. You used to be exciting. You used to be soulful. You used to be angry. Now, you’re just….Drake-ified. And the sexist tropes you continue to trot out make it really hard to even casually listen to you.

It’s because your words have power, even if the mouthpieces are whack as hell. Hip-hop, think of all the people listening to you on the subway, in the car, at home. Think of a generation of men repeating over and over to themselves that a girl isn’t a good girl unless she stays home and waits to service me sexually, on my terms. Think of a generation of women, singing along, quasi-endorsing that this is an okay way for men to think about their sexuality. Because when you say things, either out loud or in your mind, they affect you — your thoughts, your mood, your state of well being. It’s not a blatant indoctrination, but it just keeps creeping in and I really think it’s affecting the way that we relate to each other, as human beings.

Now, I hear your protestations, hip-hop. Drake isn’t all that bad! He was on Degrassi Jr High! He had a cute Bar Mitzvah video! And his song isn’t that sexist! Maybe he also realizes he is really REALLY lame and maybe there was more to the relationship than we are hearing in the song!

Okay, well, as a bookend, let’s take the other hip-hop/r&b artist in the top 5 this week on the Billboard Hot 100: The Weeknd, and his song The Hills.

I only call you when it’s half past fiveThe only time that I’ll be by your sideI only love it when you touch me, not feel meWhen I’m fucked up, that’s the real meWhen I’m fucked up, that’s the real me, yeahI only fuck you when it’s half past fiveThe only time I’d ever call you mineI only love it when you touch me, not feel meWhen I’m fucked up, that’s the real meWhen I’m fucked up, that’s the real me, babe

I’mma let you know and keep it simpleTryna keep it up don’t seem so simpleI just fucked two bitches ‘fore I saw youAnd you gon’ have to do it at my tempoAlways tryna send me off to rehabDrugs started feelin’ like it’s decafI’m just tryna live life for the momentAnd all these motherfuckers want a relapse

Full confession: yes hip-hop, I love the music the Weeknd makes — THE MUSIC. It’s dramatic and interesting and it makes me feel like I either want to punch someone in the face or rip all their clothes off. I fully appreciate the novel quality of his art. It really does makes me feel something.

But these lyrics? I can’t. I’ve seen concert footage of Abel (The Weeknd’s government name) leading hundreds of people screaming about how they will only be calling at 5:30am, and it makes me sad. It makes me sad to think about people walking around humming the hook — which is catchy as hell, I admit — and what that might be doing to the way they feel about their relationships. And I’m a reasonably confident, self-assured adult — can you imagine what these words are doing to younger, more malleable minds? Are you surprised there are sexting rings in high schools? You shouldn’t be. You’re only supposed to touch me, not feel me.

But wait, I hear you complaining hip-hop: isn’t this what the modern age of relationships is? Isn’t it actually so evolved of us to liberate sex from commitment and empower everyone to do whatever we want and hook up with people at all hours of the night? Sorry, I’m really skeptical. While it’s a modern notion to treat sex and relationships more casually, I’d argue it’s probably less evolved. A lot of people are unhappy, unsure and lonely — even if they are having A LOT of sex. We haven’t figured out how to feel about these arrangements — much less how to feel GOOD about them, and so we get songs from Drake about being upset some girl isn’t willing to exclusively give him…casual sex? What?

Hip-hop, I am tired of you using sex as a commodity. A commodity that men own and women spitefully keep from them. A commodity that men are owed and should receive whenever they decide they want it, however they want it. A commodity that when spent by women is magically transformed into something slutty. How are we supposed to teach our little girls to feel good about sex — when sex is the safest and most accessible it’s ever been in human history — when Future is writing bars like “I just fucked your bitch in some Gucci flip flops”? (Side note: Which is a 10-word masterpiece of materialistic, emasculating, slut-shaming misogyny, when you think about it.) (Side note to the side note: Future, do you need a hug?) The point is, if we keep treating sex like it’s nothing, how equipped are we to handle it when it is something?

You’ve let me down, hip-hop. You’ve grown fat and lazy and you make me feel rotten. Where are your songs about actually connecting with someone? About love? About respect? About ANYTHING remotely happy? Why, hip-hop, have you allowed yourself to become so one-dimensional? And where the hell did Common go? And while the circumstances I just described aren’t entirely your fault, hip-hop, this is a boundary I can easily draw for myself.

So, it is with regret (?) that I inform you that we are breaking up, hip-hop. It’s not me, it’s you.

Well, it’s you and Drake.

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Currently, New York is turning to fall, complete with fiery foliage, dipping temperatures and rain showers. If I’m completely honest, it’s my third favorite season here — firmly ranked only slightly above winter (and spring only gets the slightest of advantages because it means summer is next). You can definitely blame my formative years, spent in the terminal sunshine of Los Angeles. So while I am coping with this seasonal shift, my mind has been traveling back in time to a trip I recently took to the High Desert of California, and Joshua Tree in particular.

Less than a three hour drive from LA, Joshua Tree and its Low Desert sibling, Palm Springs, have become something of a destination with the popularity of concerts like Coachella and interest in what I’m going to loosely call as “desert vibes.” While Palm Springs has always been the more built up of the two destinations, and is now home to some really great resorts, I’d recommend passing on all that for a quieter experience a bit to the north.

I wanted heat, quiet, stars and colors. I got all that AND dinosaurs. AND a ghost town. Who could ask for more?

You’re going to need sustenance.

Fun fact: I’ve never actually had an In-N-Out burger. What you see above is my grilled cheese on the right. I suppose I’m some sort of bad Californian, but I’ll definitely still defend it against all challengers to the “best burger in the universe” crown.

This is the “cracked iPhone screen” filter.
Kinda like those glamour shots at the mall, no?

Recognize these two? No? Are you sure?
(Skip to 4:50…or watch the whole thing like I just did. Again. TEQUILA!)

The Cabazon Dinosaurs are a famous roadside attraction on your way into the desert on Interstate 10, and worth a brief stop. Dinny, the Brontosaurus, was built over a period of eleven years, beginning in 1964; and Mr. Rex followed in 1981. Funnily enough, since the passing of the original owner and sculptor Claude K. Bell, the property has fallen into the hands of a bunch of creationist supporters, so inside Dinny — a larger-than-life dinosaur containing original Bell frescoes of the Cro-Magnon Man — you can find a museum and gift shop dedicated to the idea that dinosaurs appeared the same day Adam and Eve did. Hilars.

Sidenote: I was going to link you to the dinosaurs’ site until I noticed the current feature article is on Ben Carson, the “The Pediatric Neurosurgeon with Gifted Hands.” So, yeah. No. I’d still recommend checking them out for kitsch value, though! Just avoid the nonsense museum and take pictures sitting on the huge dino feet.

Go to Pioneertown in Yucca Valley, an Old West set that was created in the 1940s as a place for actors and crew to live while filming television shows like The Cisco Kid. It’s still somewhat lived in and super weird – a ghost town with living ghosts. While you’re there, hit up Pappy + Harriet’s for…okay, also for beers, burgers and live music, but the live music here is a ticketed sort of thing.

Hike, camp or drive through Joshua Tree National Park, a unique ecosystem where the Mojave and the Colorado deserts meet. It looks a little like space to me…like if Dr. Seuss designed space.

On the way home, bask in the chill desert vibes and listen to a lot of Fleetwood Mac.

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A honey of a cocktail if there ever was one, the Bee’s Knees cocktail is a relatively simple gin tipple that I frequently make at home. All you’ll need are a few fresh ingredients, a bottle of your favorite gin, and a shaker.

Shake with ice, strain into a cocktail coupe, garnish with a fresh slice of lemon.

But wait, what the heck is honey syrup (1:1)?!Don’t you worry girl, I got you.

Grab a small mason jar and your honey container. Put equal parts honey to warm water in the jar. You won’t need much to make one cocktail, but having a bit on reserve in the fridge is a classy move, so let’s do 2 ounces each of honey and water. Screw on the lid and shake it up until it is thoroughly mixed. Voila, you just made honey syrup! Refrigerate any unused portion and throw it away after two weeks.

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While I have yet to use the oven in the apartment I’ve lived in for over two years, one area of my kitchen that gets a fair amount of attention is my home bar. What started out as a few bottles of my favorite spirits — no obscure liqueurs, no tools, no doo-dads — has gradually evolved into one of my favorite places in my apartment. Its remarkable growth can be explained partially by the fact that I currently work in the spirits industry, but it’s also true that few things bring me more pleasure than collecting.

For spirits, my first look is Astor Wines. They’re humongous. But it’s definitely worth exploring your neighborhood to find a local shop you like. They’ll be able to order you pretty much anything — as long as you ask them nicely.

For how to bring it all together, refer to the Death & Company Book. Written by the folks behind one of New York’s preeminent cocktail bars, this tome is no joke. Be prepared for indulgent discussions about the bar itself and the folks who work and drink there, and on how to make over 500 cocktails. Mind you, “indulgent” in the best possible sort of way.

And if history is more your thing, David Wondrich just re-released his classic IMBIBE!, which traces the beginnings of the great American invention: the cocktail as we know it today.

Where to keep it all? If you’re like me and have no space (hello teensy Soho apartment life), make due with the best surface available. In my case, as shown above on Instagram, the bar is perched atop my midcentury modern dresser…which is technically in the kitchen. I told you my apartment was small! If you’ve got a little room to work with, I love bar carts like this one, this one and ESPECIALLY this one.

Lastly, I’m personally a big fan of straws and vintage swizzle sticks. Add something personal or original to the mix to truly make it your bar.

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I hope everyone had a lovely Father’s Day! I spent it a bit far from my dear old Dad, since he lives out west and I’m in New York, but at least we had the chance to talk on the phone. I’ve been sitting on these photos, of Arizona rancher James A. Shugart and his children, for some time — but perhaps I was actually waiting for Father’s Day. Taken in 1954 by Allan Grant for Life Magazine, my favorite image is probably the one of James Jr., pouring his morning coffee.

These photos are similar to an older post of mine, The Youngest Cowgirl, also featuring Allan Grant’s work for Life.

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In reflecting upon how much desire these simple sneaks from Gap have just inspired, it’s entirely possible that New York has finally tipped my internal balance to 51% NY, 49% CA — because when I look at these I think SPRING!!! Which is hilarious because they are black leather sneakers, says California me. No, no, says New York me, can’t you see?? Shoes that aren’t boots that you can wear without socks? That’s practically a tropical vacation for our feet!

Controversy aside, these babies are a perfect transition from the recent winter of our collective discontent AND a perfect price to boot — $49.95 and an additional 35% off until tomorrow, 4/24 — so get while the getting is good, and we can be spring twins.